Hologram: A Haunting Read online

  Meg took stock of her situation. The tapping had stopped. The piano music recurred from time to time, more often in her dreams or half-dream states.

  It just wasn’t that terrible. Did it truly warrant giving up the house? If only she had denied—not the existence of spirits—but the access she had given. Kurt wanted to retreat only because of the spirits’ effect on her. He himself was a skeptic, an unbeliever. He didn’t talk much about religion, for that matter. A lapsed Catholic, he didn’t accompany her to Mass the two or three times a month she attended.

  Meg blamed herself. She had mentally invited communication with the spirits. That may have made the difference. Perhaps poor Juan lay in St. Margaret’s because of her, because she encouraged them to materialize.

  She suddenly stopped rocking, her mind stricken with a thought both terrible and logical: Coming so close in time and description to her own similar mishap, could it be that Juan’s was no mere coincidence? Could it be that he was a victim by proxy? A proxy for her because she had escaped unscathed? The thought was chilling.

  Could it be that they were dealing with a vengeful and malevolent ghost?

  Meg shuddered at the thought, then let it go. She had never been one to think the worst, and she would not do so now. Not about this.

  In any event, her notion that the spirit of the boy was a force for good was put in question. It was capricious at best, and at worst—what? One thing was certain: there were two entities, one of a child and one of a woman, and one or both of them had to be taken very seriously. She drew in breath and thought for a good, long time, deciding at last that she would keep this information from Kurt. Telling him would just add fuel to the fire.

  A noise jolted her now from her thoughts, a noise there in the room.

  Before she had time to react or even think, Rex jumped up into her lap, his meow more of a whine.

  Meg sighed in relief. Enough is enough, she thought, petting him.

  She turned to the window now to watch the night shadows outside and the gentle stir of the new leaves on the old willow in the front yard. Rex began to purr. Will I be here to see it through even one season? she asked herself. Everything about this house feels so right. I want to stay!

  One has to have dreams, she thought. This wonderful old house had become one of hers. How could she shake herself free of it, live her life knowing she had given up?

  She thought back to her first love, her true love. Pete had been a dream unrealized, one that colored the years after him. But she would not blame herself for his loss, as she had for many years. That had been his choice. Having a child had been a dream, too, one that now included Kurt—and the house. How quickly, she realized, having the child and the house had become one seamless dream. How to explain it?

  She couldn’t.

  And neither would she give up the house.

  Kurt was putting the house up for sale on Monday. Meg had no reason to doubt him. Meeting with the psychoanalyst offered some vague hope, but how soon could an appointment be had?

  Never mind, she told herself. She would not sit idly by in the meantime. She would be no sacrificial Billy Budd. There was action that she could take on Monday.

  FOURTEEN

  Fortunately, Meg’s health care calls had been scheduled for the morning. With time running out, she regretted having taken the job—even if it was part time. She performed the calls as efficiently as possible, trying to avoid any sign that she was less than enthusiastic.

  Still, her spirits were up. She had called the library early in the morning. Yes, she was told, Miss Millicent would be returning to work today. She thought of leaving her name but didn’t. She wasn’t sure the woman would remember her by name. Miss Millicent struck her as too scattered, too eccentric.

  The morning seemed interminably long. Four house calls and not any one close in distance to another. She finished by noon, though, and stopped home for a light lunch. She wasn’t hungry but managed to force down a tuna on rye—without mayonnaise—and a bowl of tomato soup.

  She ate quickly and headed for the library.

  The first thing Meg noticed in the Calumet Room of the Hammond Public Library was the carved wooden sign on Miss Millicent’s huge oak desk. She did have a last name: Reidy. Fitting, Meg thought, she was so damn thin.

  Miss Millicent was approaching her now. Meg’s eyes fixed on the thinning, curly hair that must have just been subjected to its latest henna home treatment. Bare scalp was more plentiful than the hair.

  To Meg’s surprise, the woman did remember her. All right, she thought, maybe not so scattered, but still five stars in the eccentric department.

  Miss Millicent rubbed her hands together like an overanxious undertaker. Her fingers were quite crooked with arthritis, the nails magenta. “Well, well, where do you wish to start—is it Mary?”

  Meg smiled. “No—it’s Meg. Well, the house was built in 1910, so I’d like to work my way through Hammond history starting a few years before that.”

  “Excellent! Precisely what I thought, too, sweetie. Come over to this table. I’m all set up for you.”

  “You are?” Meg was impressed—and astonished to see that she was prepared, indeed. The long table was piled with loose papers, documents, pamphlets, pictures, and books. The sheer volume was daunting.

  “Now, once you wade through this, I’ll show you some microfiche materials. Do you know how to work a microfiche machine?”

  “Yes, thanks so much, Miss Millicent.”

  “It’s what I’m here for, my dear. Now remember to keep an eye out for the Reichart name. That’s the family that built your home. Johann Reichart was the patriarch. Very reputable!”

  Meg chuckled that the woman could remember a name from ninety years before, but not the name of someone she has just met. She sat down and began to sift through the voluminous information on Hammond, where—as one advertisement boasted—“all roads meet.” Kurt would have a fine comment on that.

  She sorted through many items from the early 1900s. In 1910, she learned, the population in Hammond was nearing 21,000, the first five and dime was established, and citywide gas service had begun.

  She became more and more amazed at the prosperity of early Hammond. Its present state was just a shadow of what it had once been. New factories, foundries, mills, theaters, stores both big and little, and banks were erected, year after year. Interesting as it all was—the history, fashions, inventions, human drama—Meg worked fast. She did find a number of references to the Reichart Law Agency, but almost two hours yielded nothing germane to the house or the Reichart family.

  She copied anything remotely of interest.

  She was paging through one of the last books when a picture caught her eye. It was a photograph of a very slick-looking street; moving down it was a hulking piece of machinery that seemed to be spraying it. Meg thought it some kind of an early street sweeper contraption that sprayed the streets with water. But a close look and the photograph caption clarified the matter: it was a machine that spread oil onto the streets. The caption identified the “street oiler” in the high driver’s seat but gave no additional information.

  Meg walked over to Miss Millicent’s desk.

  “Find something, my dear?”

  “Something odd. Look at this picture.” Meg placed in on the desk. “What is a street oiler?”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Millicent said, looking down over the big red glasses, “that is very odd. It’s a wagon-tank and sprinkler. On dry, dusty days they used to coat the city streets in oil—to keep the dust down, you see. Goodness! Seems a colossally stupid idea now, doesn’t it? I’d rather deal with a little dust than have my shoes and hem coated in oil. And can you imagine sending children out to play? My! My!”

  Meg walked back to her table. She stood, staring silently at the photograph, her heart qui
ckening.

  Miss Millicent called out in a stage mother’s whisper: “I’ve got the microfiche materials ready—whenever you are.”

  “Thanks,” Meg answered absently, not taking her eyes from the picture. This was at last a payoff. She recalled the first dream, remembering now how oil seemed to blanket the streets, how it clung to her shoes, stained the hem of her long dress.

  Meg copied the picture. Here was definitive evidence that her dreams were not hers. How could she have known about such a bizarre practice? Today was the first she had ever heard of oiling the streets.

  Buoyed by this success, Meg moved over to the microfiche machine.

  Miss Millicent stood nearby. “I’ve got the newspapers here for you. Mostly The Lake County Times. It may be a tedious task, but I’m sure you’ll find something.”

  “Now, you didn’t know the Reicharts?” Meg asked.

  “Personally? No. You see, they were Presbyterians. My people were Lutherans. One really kept to her own circles then, not like now. Why, did you notice in those other materials how even the banks encouraged separatism by catering to a particular community, calling themselves things like the Citizens German National Bank or the First Polish National Savings?” Her laugh was surprisingly full and throaty.

  Meg laughed, too. “I did.”

  “Later on they dropped the ethnic part. Not good for business—or community, for that matter! To limit yourself like that.”

  Meg set to work again. She found it painstaking, mainly because the name of Reichart appeared so many times, usually in reference to the law business. Johann Reichart had established the firm and had taken junior partners. Meg found the only reference to his wife in his obituary of 1905. Her name was Florence. Jason Reichart, his son’s name, began to appear frequently after that in relation to lawsuits and advertisements for the firm.

  The 1907 story of a land purchase caught Meg’s eye:

  Reichart Purchases

  Old Hayley Farmstead

  The text detailed how Jason Reichart purchased the farm from the estate of John Hayley, and that he planned to break it into lots for those wishing to live “removed from the stresses of the city.” It would be called the Homewood Addition, a name Meg remembered seeing on her own deed. Stresses of the city, Meg thought, everything changes, yet nothing does. She wondered at the notion that her area of town—not even a mile and a half from the city’s core—could be considered “removed.”

  Meg was at last getting into the 1910 files when Miss Millicent cautioned her that the Calumet Room would be closing at 4 p.m. Meg looked at her watch: less than half an hour!

  She would gladly have spent the day there, if she were allowed to do so.

  Her expression was not lost on Miss Millicent. “I’ll be back Wednesday, my dear,” the woman said.

  “Not till Wednesday?” Meg’s disappointment sharpened.

  “No, I have a librarian’s seminar to attend tomorrow. Always something new to learn, you know.”

  “Could I perhaps bring these files down to one of the machines in the main library?”

  Miss Millicent stared at Meg in horror and her tone had a bite to it. “Absolutely not!”

  Meg regretted the suggestion, but before she could cushion what had been taken as an affront, Miss Millicent walked briskly away.

  The woman was left of center, Meg thought, nothing new there. But Meg needed her help—she must be careful to keep the woman in her corner.

  Meg took no time to brood, however, and moved at a still faster pace.

  She didn’t know what she was looking for—not really. Some clue to the people who first lived in the house. Scores of families had occupied the house after the Reicharts: the tax records and old telephone books had given up that information. What if the secret were hidden with one of them? The house, it seemed, had not welcomed any one family for more than just a few years, sometimes not even that. Meg had her suspicions why.

  It was her intuition that led her to persist with the first family—along with that first recurring dream. In it Meg was dressed in heavy, tightly laced, old style clothing. The setting of the dreams, too, with the hard dirt streets, storefronts, medieval cars, and an occasional horse supported a Reichart theory. And, of course, the 1907 photograph of the street oiler. How many years could they have gone on oiling the streets? Surely they were unneeded once streets were paved with bricks.

  Still, she had no clear evidence that her dreams were connected to the paranormal manifestations in the house. But she knew that they were. Intuition again. But strong.

  The microfiche images were flying by so fast she almost missed it. She backed up a page. Sure enough, a short narrative and a picture of the house, her house on Springfield Street! The caption over the photograph read:

  Reichart Home Finished

  The article of August 1, 1910, highly praised the architect for the building that sat squarely on three of the new Homewood Addition lots, citing as key features its architecture, mullioned windows, Tiffany stained glass, verandah, balconies, and interior use of woods. Jason P. Reichart, his wife Alicia, and their three young sons were to take possession by the end of the week.

  Meg studied the picture. The house today was little changed. Beautiful in its design—a kind of grand simplicity. Well, maybe not so simple. Knowing she was seeing the very first picture of her house lifted her. But what took her breath away now had to do with where the photographer—no doubt long dead—had positioned himself. He had placed himself far enough away so that it became apparent that the land on either side and immediately behind the house was merely farmland. Rooftops of downtown buildings stood in the distant background.

  What wonderful views the Reicharts must have had from the verandah and side windows, and even from the rear! Today, houses blocked those views.

  Meg was certain, too, that the front balcony of the house afforded a completely unimpeded view of Indiana prairie. No South Hammond. No Munster.

  Just one sweeping, splendid panorama.

  Meg now experienced something very strange. Later, she would not remember if she actually closed her eyes or not, but her experience was intensely real, vivid yet blurred, like a Monet. She was standing on the balcony looking to the south, taking in the landscape of gently rolling prairies, farmland, trees, brush, flowers—even their scents—the sounds and flights of birds. It was a majestic sight. She reached out and touched the wooden balustrade, freshly painted. Her heart was flushed with pride: This is my house, she thought. I am the first to live in it. I will spend all my days here.

  The sensation—vision—lasted less than a minute. Meg was pulled from this other world by Miss Millicent, who was giving her a ten-minute warning.

  Probably saw me staring off into space, Meg thought. She’s not the only one a bit eccentric.

  Meg could not shake the feeling that she had left her own self, if only for a minute. The experience had been much like one of her dreams: for the moment she had been that first person to walk the balcony, the first to say, This is mine!

  Meg copied the picture.

  Almost immediately, she came across another photo of the house, taken for the October 20, 1910, issue of The Lake County Times.

  A group of grim-faced women stood on the front porch as if confronting the enemy-photographer. The caption read:

  Presbyterian Ladies Meet

  No article, just a short blurb that stated Mrs. Jason Reichart was entertaining the Presbyterian Ladies Group in her home. Missionary work at home and abroad was their topic of conversation. No one in the picture was identified.

  Rotten luck, Meg cursed, Alicia Reichart is undoubtedly in this picture—but where! Which one?

  She eagerly, methodically, scanned the three rows of fifteen or sixteen properly dressed, rigidly posed, unsmiling women, wondering, Which o
ne?

  Her eye was drawn to a woman in the lower left-hand corner, a woman with dark hair neatly swept up and attractive features including what appeared to be a mole on her right cheek—unless this was a blemish on the photograph. She had a strong frame, it seemed, and any curves were well hidden beneath dark fabric.

  This is Alicia Reichart, Meg thought, not quite knowing why at first, just knowing.

  She studied the face more closely. Yes, this is she, she decided. The face, the very stance. Her face was not so much grim, as the others, as it was—what?—smug? Yes, a kind of smugness and pride radiated from her posture: straight and tall, forward thrust, with hands free at sides, as if they could go to her hips at a moment’s notice should the photographer displease her. This was the woman who stood on the balcony and said, “This is mine!”

  Miss Millicent came over. “Find something, dear?”

  Meg showed her both pictures.

  “Bravo, young lady!”

  “Tell me, Miss Millicent, do you know any of these women? Can you tell me which is Alicia Reichart?”

  “Oh, I suppose you think I am as old as they?” She picked up the copy.

  Meg immediately thought she had offended the woman. “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply— ”

  “It’s all right,” she said, studying the faces. “To you young people, old is old. What’s a decade after sixty-five? Am I right?”

  Meg felt herself blushing with embarrassment. “Forgive me. Of course, you couldn’t be their age. All of these women must be— ” Meg stopped abruptly, certain she had only compounded her faux pas.

  “Dead?” The word came like the sting of a wasp.

  Meg was speechless. Her cheeks pulsed hotly.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” the woman clucked. “I’m eighty-two. I didn’t come into the world for a few years after this was taken. So I’m not that far removed from the time, after all. I’m a Lutheran, my dear, and these are Presbyterian ladies, so it’s doubtful I would be acquainted with any of them—although . . . ”